


Azteca Tacos

by cincoflex



Series: Azteca Tacos [1]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M, I see romance everywhere, Tacos are important, love for Avery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-19 18:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: After leaving Wolf Network, Avery Brown picks up his life, with some new developments.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really wanted to do something for Avery Brown, and this is the start of it. I would never have considered it if Vega_Voices hadn't held my hand the entire time. (Go read her 'Come Rain, Come Shine series if you haven't already.)

Avery

It’s four blocks from the studio to Azteca Tacos, all told, and worth every step in my opinion. I try to get over there twice a week if I can because Gerardo does a guacamole that would make Martha Stewart cry and because I usually need that much time to cool down on my way over and gear up on my way back. It’s DC, and walking’s not an issue unless it’s raining or snowing, which just make it slower.

I like walking through the city. Keeps my thoughts clear, lets me re-evaluate material and gives me perspective. Not always an easy thing to do, especially after the fiasco in Texas. After a couple of months, one of the independent stations, WREN offered me a chance to be part of an anchor team with more of a local focus and I took it. It’s okay; this is the sort of career that bounces around, and I still have the chance to do what I love. I’m here for the people and they’re the ones I’m keeping in mind. When I’m reporting, I like to keep the real world in mind: the homeless; the working class; the joggers dashing by, the students huddled in the bus stops.

Dad taught me to keep my eye on people most affected by politics.

The other advantage to walking is less hassle. Less hassle for parking and gas and maintenance. I can Uber anyplace I need to get for far less than owning a car. Mom doesn’t believe it, but then again, walking’s not as comfortable for her as it used to be. She’s honest about that. Besides, her studio foots the bill to let her ride in style and she’s earned it. Don’t begrudge her that. My studio only pays for transportation when it’s part of a trip or for some function.

But for things like lunch, I have no problem schlepping to Azteca and back. Easy route, great food, fair exercise. All good. Sometimes I can talk Jordan into coming with me, which is nice. He’s good company, even if he bitches about my pace and choice of topics. We go back a ways and he’s one of the few guys at WREN who is genuinely nice, not just on-air nice. Honestly, for a back-up meteorologist and statistic guru, Jordan’s great—especially when he offers to pay.

But it’s also a warning that he wants to talk about Mack, so I take it with a grain of salt. Being sympathetic about someone else’s rocky relationship is a part of being a good friend but it gets a little tiresome when the arguments and resolutions happen with such regularity. Not that I’m any authority in the romance department, noooo. 

Part of it is caution, so deeply embedded it’s part of my nature. You don’t grow up as the son of someone like Murphy Brown without developing a tough hide. I’ve been in and out of the spotlights on her for most of my life, and while I’m aware of how much privilege that’s given me, it’s also . . . well, scarred me a bit. Made me a shade suspicious of other people’s motives when meeting me, or talking to me.

I try to keep it on the lowest setting of course, because like it or not, I AM her son, and yes I’m a part of a pretty elite circle. But it doesn’t help when you’re trying to cozy up to someone and all they want to know is if Frank Fontana ever combs his eyebrows, (he does) and if it’s true that my mother once deliberately sabotaged an elevator so she could grab an exclusive with Bob Dole. (She did, and lived to tell the tale. Often.)

So trying to hold that spotlight away from myself doesn’t make intimacy any easier and I’ve accepted it.

Fact of life.

The other is that I’m not looking for just anybody. Maybe it’s another legacy from Mom and Co. but I’ve had some prime examples of what not to do in terms of a relationship, and while there are many interesting attractive people around, I’m cautious. Politically liberal, romantically conservative I guess. That isn’t to say I don’t have some experiences; I do--just not very pleasant ones.

Not counting the usual teen crushes there was Carole, back when I was in my last year of college. Very upscale and blonde; poster girl for the up and coming generation. She was pretty, and I pursued her because well, she was what other people expected me to be interested in. On the surface we looked good together. Unfortunately in Carole’s case it was all pretty much surface barely stretched over an astounding lack of interest in anything unrelated to Kardashians or Instagram.

And the intimacy was like sex with a gum-chewing blow-up doll.

So I broke up with her through a text, which seemed to suit us both and honestly, Mom pretty much called it, which didn’t help.

Then there was Georgie, who I met through a companionship app. They were kind of fun—certainly more than a match intellectually. They worked at one of the fancier brokerage firms up in Chevy Chase and while I really enjoyed the sweet side of holding hands and cuddling with them for a while, I couldn’t quite cope with wanting more, physically, than my asexual sweetie wanted. Rather than risk losing them, we broke up amicably and I still hang out with Georgie, especially when they throw holiday parties.

Damn my traitorous urges; Georgie still gets a kick out of asking if I’ve found someone to “quench my carnal lingam’s restless appetite.”

Short and long answer: no.

Oh I date—enough to keep Mom off my back from that quarter. Lauren and I clicked pretty well for a while until that awkward morning-after run-in with Mom and her ah, friend the judge. Kinda threw all of us into a new level of awkwardness. Shortly after that Lauren got the offer to go work at Oxford so I did the supportive thing and urged her to take the job because hey, opportunities like that don’t come around very often. I still think of her every time I pass the Smithsonian.

And I have to be . . . careful. Public scrutiny is twenty-four seven, particularly when you’re in the media. I try to keep my profile if not low, at least scrupulously clear. Easy to do when you’re currently celibate.

But not bitter. Maybe I do live with my mother for the moment and maybe I do make some strong comments online but I keep myself busy and useful so that’s got to count in my favor, right?

 

Xochitl

My classes were going to drive me over the edge. Bloop, Like a Disney lemming off a cliff, or some virgin sacrifice to Chicomecōātl with my bloody heart still spasming in a priest’s hand as he holds it up . . .

Nah, not really, but this year my students seem a lot denser. I get the predictable questions about attendance and grading curves and office hours and required texts well before anyone asks about the syllabus. I may only be a part-time instructor with only two classes a week but I take my courses seriously. Early and middle Mesoamerican Art, and an Overview of Latin American Art. Not much but I know my subject and before I’m through, so will the forty-two students taking it.

Only been teaching for two years but it’s enough to pay the rent on the studio and keep me fed, which is a nice change in the status quo. I prefer the weather of LA, but when Georgetown called, I bought coats and moved. Now two thousand six hundred and sixty-eight miles and twenty-four months later I’m starting to get the hang of this change.

But damn baby, I miss some things. Palm trees for one. And real sunshine, not this tepid stuff filtering through the humidity. I also miss my dad’s collard greens, my mom’s Argentinian-accented Spanish and hearing chickens in the backyard. Back on Amalia Street you could hear roosters crow every morning. The only thing I hear around this part of the city is traffic.

But I’ve found a few decent places to eat, which is a blessing in itself. There’s a tiny spot a few blocks off campus that does a fantastic pho full of noodles, and I’m really crazy about OohhsandAahhs, which serves up soul food so good that I plan on taking my dad there when he and mom come to visit.

Dad’s black, in case you missed that. Big bald Vietnam vet with a handlebar mustache that bikers are jealous of. Retired from the MPs and started a dojo to teach judo. Still at it in fact. Mom’s Latina; came to the US back in the Sixties when she married Dad and teaches kindergartners at a fancy private school.

So I’m Afro-Latina according to the census. Black enough to give the power salute and Latina enough to make a mean menudo—the best of everything according to my parents. They put me through UCLA and I returned the favor by becoming valedictorian, working my ass off to do it because I’m not a great student. I have my own issues that I’ve learned to cope with over time.

Oh and Azteca Tacos. That’s the other place I’ve come to love. Gerardo Ibarra makes a guacamole to DIE for, although if my mom heard me say that she’d pout. True though—I don’t know how the man gets California avocados on this side of the country but he manages it somehow. SO GOOD! When I’m on one of my free days I try to do lunch there and load up on the goodness. Makes up for whatever the weather throws at me, and has the added benefit of letting me avoid staying on campus and risking a visit from Doctor Zuckermann.

Doctor Zuckerman is head of my department. He’s also one of the worst passive-aggressive harassers I’ve ever met. During my job interview he asked about my hair, my ethnicity, and my musical preferences, all under the claim of a ‘more rounded and comfortable’ interview. I smiled and emphasized my green belt in Judo and my father’s black belt in the same; that part of the interview stopped pretty fast.

But after I was hired (with private apologies for Zuckermann’s behavior from some of the other department members) he had a habit of ‘stopping by’ to visit. This generally meant a lot of staring on his part, with vague comments about his wife not being supportive of his career, and would I like to be his guest at a private viewing of some local artist?

Insert eyeroll here.

Rather than make excuses I just made it a point not to be around and treating myself to Azteca Tacos fit the bill.

 

Avery

I noticed her the day Gerardo told me he was out of guacamole. I’d been looking forward to my usual fix, which is the pollo burrito grande with salsa and guacamole, but this time the salsa would be standing alone apparently. A minor thing I guess but still a bit of a bummer. The walk over had been chilly, and I was rubbing my hands to hide my disappointment.

“I could give you some flan on the house, man,” Gerardo offered sympathetically.

He’s a good guy and I was about to refuse it when out of the corner of my eye I saw someone at one of the side tables look up quickly. A girl—young woman really—who had a laptop and a stack of papers on her table along with a half-finished quesadilla and two cups of guacamole on her tray.

She saw me, and pointed at the one that was still untouched. “Yo. Trade?”

Gerardo kind of grinned and looked at her. “Quieres el flan?”

“Yep,” she told him and looked at me again. “Is it a deal?”

“Oh yeah,” I told her with a grateful nod. Not that Gerardo’s flan isn’t tasty—it’s great stuff actually—but I was in the mood for guacamole and wasn’t about to turn down a serendipitous offer like this.

So Gerardo handed me the dessert and I carried it over to the woman who held out the guacamole. We traded, I thanked her and headed off to my usual corner to eat my lunch in renewed bliss. From my seat I had a great view of the street but it’s out of the wind and the sunlight felt nice filtered through the glass. I checked my phone for email, caught the headlines that the station was running and puttered around with a few games as I ate, doing my best to enjoy the food before I had to head back into the fray.

Before I left, I looked back; the woman was still dealing with her papers, but she glanced my way and I gave her a thumbs up. I got a smile and a nod in return before I headed out into the wind, warmed by my food and the gesture.

A little thing but nice, you know?

So the next time was at Azteca I looked for her and she was there again, this time with a book. My Spanish was a little rusty but I’m pretty sure Oro y Cordicia translated to ‘Gold and Greed.’ While I was waiting I kind of studied her surreptitiously since I didn’t really do that the first time.

Short, kind of chubby but the curves looked like muscle, not fat. Her hair was pulled back in a sort of puffy bun at the nape of her neck and it was really fluffy. Like afro fluffy. Bright blue reading glasses since they were halfway down her broad nose. Generous mouth and her complexion was a sort of sugary brown.

And then I got caught staring.

Rich brown eyes with a hint of green in them, bright and big.

She frowned but it faded when she recognized me. I was embarrassed as hell because I didn’t mean to make either of us uncomfortable, so I awkwardly waved just as the customer in front of me left. Gerardo glanced her way and then back at me, clearly trying not to laugh.

“I have guacamole today,” he told me in a slightly commiserating tone and I realized he thought I wanted to flirt . . .

“No. Ah, good. Yeah. Good. I’ll have some,” I told him, trying not to look at the woman. “Good to have guacamole.” God what a stupid thing to say.

I ordered, and spent my waiting time looking any place but at the woman. When I got my food I scurried to my corner and ate, feeling self-conscious now. This is what happens when I channel my mother, socially. Meeting people is fine, being friends is fine but the process in between is something I’m not naturally good at—I have to work at it.

Dad was.

He could make lifelong friends with the cabdriver and be on anyone’s Christmas list before the ride was over. It was people skill, and yeah Peter Hunt had lots of it. Too damned bad it never rubbed off on me . . . especially now.


	2. Chapter 2

Xochi

I saw him again, standing in line a week or so later . . . felt someone staring at me and when I glanced up there he was, looking my way. Usually when I feel people’s eyes on me I give them the ‘back off’ scowl but Mr. Guacamole seemed like a real puppy so I made it a point to smile.

The man blushed. He was so white I could see it from where I was sitting and that was dangerous because I have a weakness for blushers. Blushers are the most honest people on the planet—they can’t lie when their complexions give them away like that, not at all.

Shy though. Wouldn’t look my way so I guess he was embarrassed. Still . . . I watched him go sit down, getting a good look at him. Tall, bearded, sort of geeky. The first time I’d seen him he had glasses but not now, so he probably had contacts. I might have pegged him for a hipster except he didn’t pose with his food or Instagram it. Also, he said please and thank you, so that bumped him up in my estimation. I figured he was probably a legislative analyst or on some congressman’s staff, slipping away for decent lunches here at Azteca.

Good for him.

Still, I had two more chapters to digest before I could call it a day and get to the studio, so I went back to reading until Mr. Guacamole finished his lunch. Once he’d left, I asked Gerardo about him.

“That one? He’s on TV,” Gerardo told me. “Seen him a few times but he doesn’t act like a bigshot, que no?”

I pondered that, and then changed the subject to the mural that Gerardo wanted for his back wall, showing him a preliminary sketch. “Templo Mayor with native trees and background,” I murmured. “I can add a few priests and citizens in the foreground too.”

Gerardo nodded. “Do it and I’ll give you free lunch for a year, amiga!”

We shook on it and I headed out to pick up supplies from the store, feeling pleased. The mural would take a few weeks but it was going to be gorgeous and getting a year’s worth of food for it, oh yeah. I hoped word of mouth would get out and I might get a few more commissions too---I love doing murals.

Within two weeks I got started, working through my lunch when the light was best. I tried not to get in the way of the diners and most of them were pretty supportive and impressed. I wore my spattered overalls and had my hair up in a ‘do rag as I climbed up and down the ladder, sketching the background and slowly filling it in with color. Trees, birds, blue sky, the Pacific ocean . . . I worked on it steadily, making sure my little jar with business cards advertising my studio was up: **Brown Girl Mural Co.** Some people took some of the cards, and I did get a few bucks dropped in even though it wasn’t a tip jar.

Mr. Guacamole stopped in when I was working on a parrot. I was just finishing doing up the fancy tail feathers when I saw him step into the restaurant, looking over my work with this astonished expression. Very gratifying, especially when it shifted to a big smile. When he spotted me, I gave him a thumbs up, grinning back as he noticed my painter overalls and brushes.

He came over, still staring at the wall. “Wow. _You_ did all this?” 

“From concept to completion . . . eventually. Yeah. Like it?” I wanted to know. 

“It’s exactly what this place needed,” he told me quietly. I squirmed a little, blushing myself—it’s not every day you get the perfect compliment. 

“Thanks. But I have ulterior motives. Gerardo will give me free lunches for a year,” I confessed. 

“Damn it, I _knew_ I was in the wrong line of work,” he sighed with a smirk. “Is it a real place, or something you created?” 

“It’s Templo Mayor, the main temple of Tenochtitlan. If you want to get fancy it’s called Huēyi Teōcalli,” I told him, and then felt like a damned show-off. 

Always been my problem when I’m nervous; I scare people off by spouting arcane shit. 

Avery 

Okay I’ll admit it: I’m a sapiophile. Have been since about sixth grade when I made it into the Look-it-up Club and won a dictionary by the end of the year. We can’t help being who we are and frankly, smart people turn me on. One of the reasons I had trouble ending things with Georgie was that they are card-carrying members of Mensa. So when this muralist spouted off the original name of the temple she was painting I got serious pangs in my chest. 

“Are you an archaeologist?” I asked, mentally casting her as a cross between Indiana Jones and Zoe Washburn from Firefly. 

My libido growled a little. 

“Considered minoring in it for a while, but no,” she told me, looking sort of embarrassed, although I couldn’t understand why. Her work was gorgeous. “Archeological fieldwork is massively important but not glamorous or well-funded.” 

“Art degree?” I guessed. I should have been in line ordering lunch but I had time. 

“Yes. UCLA,” she told me, fishing for a rag and wiping her brush. 

God the smell of cleaner took me back and I blinked, thinking of Eldin. He would have loved this wall with all the colors and delicate detail. I took in a deep breath. “Linseed oil.” 

She gave me a startled look. “Yes. You . . . paint?” 

“No, knew someone who did, though,” I admitted. Gerardo waved at me and I realized nobody else was in line, so reluctantly I moved to the counter, giving the woman another smile. 

I watched as she finished up a life-sized parrot, adding depth to the head, making the eyes yellow with little dabs of color. She was absorbed in the job and I could see her concentration shift as her thought processes directed her choices. Fascinating. People with real talent are a joy to observe and I realized I’d burned nearly an hour before I roused myself and reluctantly headed back to the studio. 

I got halfway there when I realized I still didn’t know the woman’s name. I chided myself for missing the most basic question a reporter could ask and made a promise to myself to ask when I saw her again. 

Not if, but when—that much at least I knew. 

In the meantime I had to listen to Harriet chide me about my beard as she did my makeup. Harriet’s thirty years older than I am and always gives me the heads up on the latest gossip, which I appreciate. 

“Rah-Rah is going to be pushing her gripe about the holiday rush,” Harriet told me. Rah-Rah was her nickname for our female anchor Josie Marston, who used to be a cheerleader and never lost the hard-edged perkiness of someone who builds morale with blunt objects. 

“Christmas is still two months away,” I pointed out, getting a snort from Harriet. 

“She’s getting the jump on the griping. Oh, and Jordan’s got a segment on the hurricane season, so you might want to step out when he goes up.” 

I nodded. Harriet is one of the few people who knows how I feel about those. I let her finish as I reviewed my notes on the week’s likely topics: Immigration, budget and some new scandal involving the national parks. I wondered what mom’s team would say about that last one, which had conflicting removal orders planting grizzlies near a retirement home in Colorado. Mom would probably make some crack about between gun control or legal marijuana with a bet on the bears getting the guns and the old folks the weed. 

We filmed some of the promos for the week and I headed to check the assignment board, seeing I’d been given the immigration piece; specifically covering an upcoming march along Lafayette Square. That’s when it dawned on me that I could ask the Painter about it. 

Oh yeah, that could work. I tried not to get too hyped about it, particularly since I didn’t know her name yet, and I couldn’t be sure she’d want to talk to me about it, but the potential of having a represented insight into the issue from someone well-spoken and smart . . . this could be a great counterpoint to whatever Rah-Rah and Brylcreem could come up with. 

Bryan Bannock is our conservative anchor who blends his toupee in with Brylcreem, much to Harriet’s disgust. Not kind of me to call him that but I’m past the point of caring, especially when he tries to get my goat with digs about mom on a regular basis. I’ve got a tough hide, but he’s a jerk. He’s loud, misogynist, opinionated and wrong— in other words, perfect for this network. But he’s also insecure about his ratings and he knows that playing off of me boosts those, so we have an uneasy truce. 

Ah well--there’s no business like show business, right? 


	3. Chapter 3

Xochi

I finished up the mural in record time and it turned out so good that I took photos for my portfolio and sent shots back to Mama, who was thrilled to show it off back home. She’s always been super supportive of my work that way. Dad’s proud too, but he tends to push the academic side of things for my career—typical type A personality, heh.

Unfortunately between department meetings and grading classwork, I didn’t get back to Azteca Tacos for over a week, and when I did, Gerardo looked kind of frantic as I stepped up to the counter.

“Amiga! Finally! I left multo messages with your mural number but I was starting to think you’d never be back, aye!”

“What, is there a problem?” I looked at the mural, wondering if paint had smeared or maybe someone had tagged it but everything looked fine to me.

“Not the wall, the hombre blanco. That guy you gave your guacamole to. Wants to talk to you,” Gerardo told me before calling my order through the kitchen window to the cooks.

I blinked. “Like a date?”

“No, something business. He’s been coming every day to see if you’re here.”

My stalker vibe went off. “Really?” I winced.

Gerardo shook his head. “Nah, he’s cool. I’d never let him do nothin’ to a good customer like you. Anyway, he left me his number so I could let him know. You cool with it?”

I checked my phone; I had a couple of hours. “Ah, okay. But I still get free food, right?”

“Comida gratis,” Gerardo nodded. “And I’ll be right here to keep an eye.”

I appreciated that, even though I could take care of myself if push came to shove. Not that I expected it to: Mr. Guacamole looked to be one of those big gentle guys—the kind who’s good with dogs and kids by nature. So I settled in at a table near the front window and waited.

My food and the guy showed up at the same time.

Apparently he’d run the whole way; he leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, out of breath and pink-faced. I fought the giggles because it was flattering and he looked so pleased. Straightening up, he held out a hand to me, smiling.

“Hi. I’m Avery Brown,” he told me, still wheezing a little. “Glad to finally meet you!”

I took his hand and shook it; warm. Big. “I’m Xochitl—pronounced ‘Zo-chee-tul—Franklin.”

He looked at me, eyes locked on my face. “Say it again, please?” he asked, so I did, feeling that rush of self-consciousness that happens when I have to tell people what I’m called.

“Yeah, not a typical name, I know,” I sighed. “Mom was high on an epidural of pethidine at the time.”

“No, it’s . . . wow,” Avery Brown told me in delight, “Gorgeous. Does it mean something?”

“Flower,” I told him. “What about Avery?”

He made a face and I almost giggled again. “Elf counselor. Like I should be running a summer camp in Mirkwood, I know.”

I motioned for him to sit, feeling pleased now. Anyone who can joke about their own name has to have a pretty good sense of humor, and that’s important to me. It broke the ice as well since both of us were off the beaten track.

“So Mister Avery Brown, Gerardo says you’ve been looking for me?” I scooped up a section of my quesadilla, giving him time to answer.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m a reporter, and I’m going to be covering the immigration march scheduled for Lafayette Square. Were you planning on going?”

My stomach tensed. First at the news he was a reporter and then again with the term ‘immigration’ popping up, but I tried not to let it show. I’m a US citizen, born in East LA with all the necessary paperwork to prove it, but the fact that I’ve HAD to prove it still bothers me. And while I was planning on going to the march, the fact that Mr. Avery Brown assumed it . . . let’s just say that didn’t sit well with me.

Avery

Xochitl. Fabulous name. Loved the way she said it, the way it sounded, the way it FIT her. Exotic and just right. I was so caught up in thinking all those things that I missed whatever I’d said that made her freeze up.

It came rushing in a moment later, hell. Immigration. Shit. I . . . could have led into that better.

“Man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just . . . blunder into that,” I told her quietly. “Can I, ah, lay out my reasoning to you?”

She softened a bit, but still looked skeptical. “Depends. Give it a shot.”

Okay. I pulled out my moleskine and set my pen on it to by myself a moment before I started. “I’m not brown, despite the name. I’m well aware that despite what I’ve seen and reported and done, I’m not part of the issues out there. That’s why I feel it’s of the utmost importance to get the perspective that IS. To get the best point of view available from the people who ARE the story. With me so far?”

Xochitl nodded, picking up another section of her quesadilla. “So far.”

“Okay then. It dawned on me that you’re pretty articulate--”

“--For an Afro-Latina?” she shot back. There wasn’t any malice in her tone but I heard some sarcasm.

“For the _record_ ,” I countered. “Your insights are more qualified and valid than mine about the march and the reasons for it. All I want is to give your voice the audience it deserves.”

She stared at me and I felt myself getting warm under the scrutiny.

“Which voice? Because I have several, you know. I can use the one of the chiquita in overalls painting South American history on the walls of an ethnic eatery, OR the one of the well-groomed Georgetown University Art Department lecturer specializing in Meso-American culture through mixed media.”

I blinked. “Ahhhhh both? Both are valid. Holy crap, are you really a Georgetown lecturer?” I was staring now, feeling another rush of amazement bouncing through me.

“Part time, but yes. I have the parking tag here in my purse,” she told me.

Seriously getting turned on at this point, which was inappropriate but damn, when in the presence of brains . . . I cleared my throat and tried to get back in track. “Uh so yes, both would be . . . great.”

She gave me a humoring look. “Mister Brown—”

“Call me Avery,” I replied softly.

Xochitl nodded. “Avery . . . I’m a legal citizen and gainfully employed—I fit more into _your_ demographic than into the one you need to present. Truth is, you’d be better off interviewing Gerardo there than me.”

I glanced over at the owner of Azteca Tacos, considering it. “Good point.”

“Start with _his_ story, if he’s willing to share it,” she urged me. “If not, I . . . have some friends who might be amenable to talking with you, but only one is on this coast.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “The march isn’t for another two weeks, so there’s time to set things up. I still want to interview you though—maybe as a support story for the changing demographics in the US.”

Made that up on the spot, mostly out of desperation because I wanted to keep talking to her. I noticed she didn’t have a ring on her left hand and then got annoyed with myself for even checking. Xochitl offered me a section of her quesadilla and I took it, murmuring my thanks.

“Okay, that sounds like something appropriate,” she agreed. “And I’m sure the school would appreciate the media bump on top of it. What media do you work for? Gerardo said you were on TV . . .”

“WREN,” I replied reluctantly. “I’m the new guy in their lineup. I used to be at Wolf Network.”

She started giggling at that. “Oh damn, really? Gotta tell you man, my dad HATES your old station! Swears his blood pressure goes up ten points whenever he sees that cranky old white guy who does the opinion pieces.”

I sighed. “Kind of a common reaction to tell the truth. Still, I’m not with them anymore and somebody’s got to wade through the pervasive vitriol to offer up a balanced point of view.”

The appraising look I got for that made me warm again; Xochitl cocked her head and slowly nodded before she smiled. “Hell of a challenge, but you look like you’re up to it.”

“I try,” I assured her, feeling another flutter inside.

 

Xochitl

Ended up being a nice lunch and when I finally had to leave I gave Avery Brown my number. My real number too; not the University switchboard; he punched it into his phone right away and sent me a test text to check.

//Hey there?//

//Hey yourself.// I texted back and looked over at him. “Okay then. You have the power so don’t abuse it—no booty calls or drunk notes at three AM, got it?”

He gave me a lofty look that I knew was a tease. “Same goes for you, Ms Franklin.”

“No promises,” I warned the man. “Now that I have a direct line to the fourth estate and all. Anyway, I’ve got to run but maybe we’ll meet up here again.”

“I’d like that,” he told me and smiled again. I headed out, knowing Avery Brown was watching me through the big front window and did my best not to look back. It felt nice, and even though I was sure nothing much would come of it, at least I’d had a fun lunch.

Then I felt guilty. I hadn’t called Jamal in a week even though I’d promised to, so I got out my phone to send a text. Saw that the last three I’d sent were all unanswered so he was probably pissed off at me, which didn’t help matters either, damn it. I’d have to call after classes and see what was going on with him.

Jamal was . . . well, I’m not sure what to call him. A friend, yes, but also a tease and a pain as well. He’s in a quasi-relationship with Helene, who’s another friend, but they’re on and off more than a light switch. I had the biggest crush on him while the three of us were at UCLA, and he knew it. Bounced between me and Helene until we all graduated, and he couldn’t handle that I’d outranked him academically.

But it’s hard to shift your feelings overnight, and he knew I still had a soft spot for him, so he still flirted a lot, and because I was lonely I flirted back. He even came out six months ago and we had a thing while he was here. A thing I regretted because while he said a lot of sweet things, he made it clear he wasn’t ready to be serious. I was starting to clue in that Jamal never would, either. And it was hard to let go.

Once I got to my office, my med reminder went off and I pulled out the bottle in my purse, dry-swallowing the Tegretol and regretting the aftertaste. Luckily I had some bottled water and drained half of it before heading to teach.

 

Home is the top loft of the Winslow Building, a few miles north of the university. I’m over a furniture shop and they give me studio space to display some of my work, which is nice. The arrangement is good; I have nearly an entire floor to myself, and since I’m in residence, the Seredy brothers don’t need a security guard. The building is small, sort of tucked on the corner between some big trees. My dad knew a cousin of Peter, the older Seredy brother so it was enough to work out a deal.

Honestly, one of the things I really like about this point in my career is this home. I have exposed brick, good lighting and space. It’s chilly in the winter, but I’ve learned the trick of space heaters and layering so that helps. Eventually I was planning on getting a pet, but I was still debating it; my parents have always had dogs, cats and chickens, but here in DC, owning a pet was a little more complicated.

I wondered if Mr. Avery Brown had a pet. He seemed like the sort who’d like animals. Jamal didn’t, not even Coco-bean, my mom’s little ragamuffin silky terrier. Then I felt bad comparing Avery to Jamal because I had no business doing that—they were two totally different guys. Both cute, though. I went to run a bath and try to reach Jamal.

He picked up on the fifth ring. “Hey.”

“Hey. You didn’t text me back man, what’s going on?”

“Nothin,” Jamal sighed. “Listen Xochi, I’m just well, hella busy these days. You know how things get. It’s nothing personal.”

“Un-huh,” I muttered. The hell it wasn’t personal; he was back on with Helene and too chickenshit to say so.

“Hey no call to get mad, girl. You know you’re special to me,” he tried to soothe me, but frankly I wasn’t in the mood.

“Yeah, SO special you can ignore me until you need some attention,” I muttered. “Jamal, if I call Helene, is she going to tell me about how you guys are back together?”

He hesitated just long enough to confirm it. “Aw don’t be like that! Come on Xochi; I was thinking about coming out again, just to see you.”

“That’s nice,” I used my blandest tone. “Hey, gotta go---hella busy, nothing personal. See you, Jamal.” I hung up and turned my phone off, took my bath and went to bed.

I let myself wonder if Mr. Avery Brown had a girlfriend.

 

Avery

Mom was on a tear about the latest bit of nonsense from the White House and talked about it all through dinner but I wasn’t really focused on it. Mostly because I was thinking about Xochitl and all the questions I wanted to ask and hadn’t asked and hoped to ask.

A good half of them were professional, too.

Finally though, mom looked at me and growled. “Okay, what’s on your mind? Because I know you’re not listening to me.”

“I’m listening,” I protested out of habit, slipping Benny a little bit of the meatloaf.

“Oh really—so you agree with me that Wolf Blitzer should model Lederhosen?”

“What?” I stared at her and she grinned.

“Gotcha. Come on Avery—tell me what’s got you distracted.”

I didn’t want to. God no. Mom is wonderful, amazing, terrific, but she’s also . . . my mom. Most mothers ask questions: mine interrogates. No waterboards needed; Mom is as relentless as a pit bull when she wants information.

“Work,” I tried to lie.

She shot me a sharp look. “And?”

“And?”

“And that’s it.” Bluffing. I always try, it generally fails.

“You can’t lie,” Mom pointed out. “Honey, your face gets the color of a beefsteak tomato. We both know that.”

I sighed. “Personal stuff,” I finally said, hoping she’d respect that.

“Does it have to do with your sexuality? Because you know I love you no matter what---"

“Noooo!” Now I could feel my face heating up. “Come on; we’ve talked about this, and about boundaries.”

“I know,” she admitted, “but I still want you to be happy.”

The one point I couldn’t argue with because it was true. I gave a sigh. “I know. It’s just tough sometimes. You generally put your social life in park for the job, and then when you least expect it, you . . . meet someone.”

Mom cocked her head. “And bam, the libido flares up. Yeah, I’ve been there once or twice.”

I gave her a pained stare; mom’s lovelife has been public and pretty well documented. She had the grace to clear her throat and look away while sighed.

“It’s not like that,” I muttered. “Not love at first sight or some cliché. Just . . . I noticed someone.”

“Well that’s good,” Mom assured me. “Did they notice you back? They _better_ have.”

“Possibly,” I replied. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Something could happen or not. We’ll see.”

Mom gave me a hug and it felt good. She’s not always comfortable with giving comfort but when it really matters she comes through every time. I hugged her back.

“So does this someone have a name?”

“No, this someone is completely nameless,” I snorted. “A void; off the grid; untraceable; a complete ghost.”

“So you’re not going to tell me,” Mom sighed. “Fine. I get it.”

“Mom, please . . . just, let me figure it out, okay? I appreciate you care but it’s something I need to handle on my own.”

She gave in. Not gracefully but with love and I headed upstairs, glad to be out of her scrutiny. I love Mom but some things I deal with by myself. And this was . . . small. So I got a good vibe from Xochi. Nice change of pace. I wasn’t going to blow it out of proportion, make it into something it wasn’t.

Yet. Maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Avery**

So it was getting closer to the march, and I interviewed Gerardo, who asked me not to use his last name. Not because he was illegal, but he had relatives who were and didn’t want to get them in any difficulty. I could respect that, so we kept it low-key and on point. Afterwards I thanked him for being willing to do it. He just shrugged.

“If you were still at that _other_ station I would have said no,” he admitted. “Otherwise my wife, she would make me sleep on the sofa. No me gusta Wolf.”

“With you there,” I assured him. “Hope to see you at the march, man.”

Gerardo nodded and shook my hand, pleased I think with the way it had gone. I was pretty pleased myself, and collected my notes, feeling it would be a good opinion piece. As I headed back to the station I got a text.

//Earth to Avery. Are you going to show for my cookie-painting party or not?//

Georgie. I’d totally forgotten about the invitation. They usually had a pre-Thanksgiving foodie type get-together and those were fun--I got to meet some very interesting people and come away with either a full stomach or food to go, both of which were good for a single guy.

//Friday, right?//

//Yep. Bringing anyone? Always room for a plus!// There was a smiley face with that, and I shook my head. I hesitated, thinking of Xochitl, and nearly bumped into a bike rack in the process.

//Let me ask; I’ll get back to you on that, ok?//

//Huzzah! I await your next text with bated breath!//

Georgie. I was blessed to have a friend like them. Taking a deep breath, I sent another text.

//Hi, hey, would you be interested in going to a cookie-painting party on Friday? Being thrown by an old friend of mine.//

Old friend was easier than ‘ex’ at the moment; discretion being the better part of valor and all that.

I was inside the building and nearly at the door to my tiny office before I got a reply.

//Cookie-painting? Is this old friend an elementary teacher?//

//Nope, just fond of cooking and frosting. Georgie’s a holiday kind of person. I’d love to bring you, if only to let you show off your art skills.//

//Let me check my calendar. I’m intrigued.//

I gave a little happy shuffle, glad nobody was around to see it, and settled behind my laptop, typing up Gerardo’s responses to my questions. It took some polishing and I was just finishing the last couple of sentences when my phone pinged.

//Okay, Friday is clear, but not too late if that’s all right. I have early training in the AM.//

//Terrific! Where can I pick you up?//

She sent me an address and we texted a bit more before I had to go. Then came the second flurry of texts:

//Mom, using the car on Friday night. Thanks.//

//Yes on the plus one, Georgie. Counting on you to dazzle.//

The first one came back from Georgie. //Have I *ever* failed to dazzle? See you Friday, Ave.//

The next was from Mom. //Date or bank robbery: which is it?//

//Not telling but I’ll bring some cookies home.//

//I worry about you, kid. Car’s yours.//

I laughed. Mom’s been good about not nagging me about dating. I suspect it’s because her own experiences in that area weren’t always great, given I had both a biological and adoptive father. Or rather, a genetic donor slash half-hearted biological parent versus ten years with a man who fully loved, supported and cared about me. It’s still hard for me to call Peter my step-father because in every sense of the word he was always the man I called Dad.

So yeah, I’m glad Mom’s not pushing, although I wouldn’t be surprised to find condoms in the glove box.

**Xochitl**

I hadn’t been to a Thanksgiving type party in a long time; I’ve spent it with my cousin Lucrezia and the Seredy Brothers the last two years, the four of us having a big meal of whatever we feel like making, and then having a massive game of Monopoly that lasts into the night. Monopoly was the first board game the Seredy brothers learned to play when they came to the US, so it’s sentimental for them.

Lucrezia and I go back to LA for Christmas--that’s the big holiday for us, so this invitation from Mr. Avery Brown was a nice surprise. I’d been thinking about him, not sure if I should do more than text. We’d been doing that for a couple of weeks and it was nice to have little messages throughout the day, you know?

Still, it wasn’t a date, I was pretty sure of that. Parties are one of those weird situations where you’re going out but to join a group, so it’s not intimate, but it’s a good way to get to know someone, see who they hang with and what they’re like with other people so I was looking forward to it.

So I opted for nice slacks and one of my boucle sweaters in pink and cream. Did the hair in tight ringlets, added my good malachite earrings and was ready to go after a spritz of Emerald Fire. When facing new people, a decent perfume, ever so lightly applied helps—at least in my case. Mom gave me a bottle back when I graduated high school and it’s been my good luck scent ever since.

It was fun to see the surprise on Avery’s face when he pulled up in front of the store; he got out and looked up at the loft, nodding. “Nice . . . not your usual apartment, I bet.”

“It’s great,” I told him. “Good to see you.” I took his hands and squeezed them—the sort of greeting when you’re not up to hugs yet, but still personal enough. He squeezed back, his grip covering mine. We sort of stared at each other in the twilight until I felt self-conscious and let go. “So . . . tell me about this party.”

“Ah, yeah,” he murmured, letting go of my hands a little reluctantly. “Georgie Sinclair is . . . well, kind of unique. First of all, they’re a they.”

I nodded. “Okay, that’s cool. Fluid, then?”

“Yeah,” Avery looked kind of relieved that I got it, and I was amused because out on the West coast I’d met all sorts of folks, particularly at school.

_Particularly_ in the Art department.

“Georgie is commodities broker I met . . . online,” he continued as we got into his car and I caught the little hesitation in his voice. “We, ah, dated for a while but it wasn’t meant to be. But we clicked in other ways and they throw the best parties.”

“Ah. Okay,” I replied, trying to digest the information. I hadn’t pegged Avery as an online dating type, nor as the sort to . . . wander off the path, as the saying goes. But I wasn’t going to get judgmental about it, particularly when _I_ was currently stuck being someone’s off and on side piece. “So what are they like?”

Avery chuckled. “Tall. Thin. Vivacious but rapier smart, too. And a little wounded, if you know what I mean.”

“Hurt early and never fully recovered,” I murmured softly. “Yeah I do know what you mean. Do they know I’m coming?”

“Yep. I was encouraged to bring you,” Avery assured me with a quick smile that made me a little tingly. We drove, talking about all sorts of general things and in no time we pulled in front of a big Georgian in the northwest corner. Avery found a place to park and came over to open the door but I had already gotten out, which was awkward for a moment but I took his hand and squeezed it again before letting it go.

“Okay then, cookie time, right?”

“Right,” he assured me with a grin.

A tall thin blond with a half-shaved comb-over, wearing a baggy sage sweater and khol-rimmed eyes opened the door and gave a happy yelp. “A-ver-ee! Oh you in a beard are going to be the death of me! How ARE you?” They threw their arms around Avery, hugging and shaking him ever so slightly. I watched this, grinning because the affection was so honest and sweet. Avery hugged back before letting go and turning to me.

“Georgie Sinclair, this is Xochitl Franklin; Xochitl, Georgie.”

Then I got the full-on hug myself, which took the breath out of me a little but I couldn’t resist because it wasn’t long, just sincere. Georgie pulled back and looked me in the eyes, grinning. “Your name—that’s Nahuatl, yes?”

“Yes,” I replied, startled. Not many people would know that but then again, Avery had mentioned Georgie’s brains. I looked up at them and they chuckled.

“Languages are a side passion of mine. Come in, come in! Let’s get you both something to drink and some nibbles . . .”

We were ushered inside and within minutes I’d been offered several different appetizers, a choice of wine and been introduced to three other people. I caught a glimpse of Avery, fighting a laugh at my dazed look I’m sure. When Georgie sailed off to deal with a minor spill I sensed Avery coming up behind me.

“Force of nature,” he murmured and I had to laugh.

“You got _that_ right!” I agreed, turning to see his merry expression. “I can see what you mean about good parties.”

“Some of the best. Let’s mingle,” he replied.

**Avery**

Georgie caught up with me about half an hour later, corralling me into bringing out the trays of blank sugar cookies and shortbread. They gave me an amused look. A _very_ amused look. “My my, she’s darling, Avery. Where did you meet her?”

So I gave a quick version of the Azteca Taco story while I helped carry trays. Georgie laughed. “Sounds about right. Well she’s damned bright, and I love the way she’s handling Tu’s nosiness. Could this be the start of something big?”

I sighed. “Maybe,” I hedged. “Kind of early to tell.”

“What does your libido say?” Georgie purred knowingly.

“Can we not talk about that right now?” I pleaded, well-aware that it was useless.

Georgie plowed on, setting trays artistically on the dining table. “Fine but it’s a discussion that needs to happen at some point, Avery. We both know that. I’m sensing great compatibility.”

“Good to know,” I replied, looking for a distraction. “Where do you want the gingerbread men?”

“Towards the middle I think. Has she met your mother yet?”

“Not yet,” I admitted.

“Oh that’s going to be fun,” Georgie chortled. “How long will it take before she works Aretha Franklin into the conversation do you think?”

“Fifty-two seconds,” I predicted. “Maybe with Dolores Huerta thrown in as well.”

Georgie laughed. “Gonna be good. All right, let’s get people in here and get some color on these confections!”

So the rest of the guests came in, finding places to sit. There were Venitha and Jane, a couple I’d met when Georgie and I were together; Tu, who was one of Georgie’s neighbors; Max and Simon, friends of theirs from work. I sat next to Xochitl while our host explained the activity.

“We have dozens of naked cookies that need an artistic touch,” Georgie announced. “I’ve got edible paint, frostings, icings and all the little sprinkles and three dimensional touches you need. Each of you will be taking a dozen home, so ready, set, go!”

It was a blast. Everyone was talking at once, choosing colors and cookies, making comments and jokes all around us. Xochitl carefully chose a star-shaped cookie and had it outlined in orange, filled with yellow and dusted with gold sprinkles before I’d even gotten eyes on my gingerbread man.

I watched her choose a candy cane and ice it up with delicate twirls of white before adding speckles of green and red into the icing, her long fingers moving smoothly. Artist at work.

“Feeling a little intimidated now,” I whispered to her.

Xochitl looked over at my gingerbread man and bit her lower lip. “He needs pants. Why does he have a shirt and no pants?”

“Because I go from the top down,” I told her. “The way everyone does.”

“Not me,” she replied cheerily. To prove it she grabbed a gingerbread man and one of the icing pens. In thirty-seven seconds she had him in high tops, striped slacks with suspenders and a cut-off tee shirt with a snowflake on it.

“Okay, I call foul,” I mock-protested. “He’s not dressed for cold weather!”

“He’s a SoCal homeboy,” Xochitl told me confidently, waving Georgie over. “Can I get a ruling here, please?”

And of course Georgie gave me grief. “Seriously Ave? This is clearly a vato galleta ready to party. Let’s see what you’ve done . . . ohhhh. So this is a little homeless cookie is it?”

“He’s not homeless; he’s . . . just had a rough time lately,” I defended my work.

On the other side of me, Tu shook his head. “Are those buttons or bullet holes?”

“Everyone’s a critic,” I muttered, but through a grin. It was fun even if art wasn’t my strong point, and clearly Xochitl was having a blast, turning out cookie after cookie: one looked like Georgie, another was clearly Beyonce, and I spotted one iced up as a Juggalo.

“Tis the season, whoop, whoop,” she whispered to me, making me snort my wine.

**Xochitl**

Damn it was fun. I had a great time, and because I was painting, I didn’t have a chance to feel awkward or shy or dumb. Avery was a great sport, taking a lot of ribbing from Georgie and me, but doing it with a sense of humor. I liked the other guests too, who were funny and interesting.

And I liked Georgie. They were charming for sure, but sensitive to the mood of the moment which made it easy to feel comfortable. I wondered why they and Avery had broken up; from the way they interacted it couldn’t have been politics or jealousy. Whatever it was I was a little sad, but also glad: Georgie seemed to like me, and Avery was . . . available?

I had to stop thinking like that. We barely knew each other and for all I knew he could be involved with someone else. So I pushed the unknowns out of my head and just enjoyed the evening. By the time every cookie was done, we had some artistic beauties and great photos of the process. I especially liked the selfie I took with both Avery and Georgie making faces over my shoulders.

They hugged me goodnight when it was time to leave, and Georgie whispered, “So glad you came tonight, especially with him. Avery deserves a happiness like you.”

Okay a little cryptic but sweet nonetheless. I didn’t catch what Georgie whispered to Avery but it made him sigh. We carried our cookies to the car, our breath frosty in the night air.

“So, had a good time?” he asked as we started the drive back.

“A blast. Georgie is seriously cool,” I assured him. “Are they seeing anyone right now?”

“They’re being coy, but I think there’s someone,” Avery replied, glancing over at me. “Were they what you expected?”

“I don’t think anyone could expect Georgie, but once met, never forgotten,” I smiled and we both sort of mulled that over.

“Well I know they liked you,” Avery assured me. “The cookie portrait sort of sealed the deal there. I’m betting they shellac it and hang it on the tree for years to come.”

I laughed. “Flattering but it’s just a cookie.”

“Masterpieces have been made in many mediums,” he reminded me and we drove on.

By the time we reached my loft it was a lot chillier and I wished I’d thought to pack a scarf. I climbed out, hanging onto my Tupperware full of cookies, digging for my key. Avery had gotten out too, hands buried deep in his pockets as he tried manfully not to shiver. “It will probably snow before too long,” he murmured, walking me to the side door of the building.

“Snow,” I made a face, feeling nervous. “Never going to get used to the cold. So . . . thank you. For tonight.”

He blinked a little. “You’re welcome. Thanks for agreeing to come along.”

And we both stood there like idiots for a minute. I didn’t know about Avery, but I didn’t want to go without something . . . physical. Just as he started to say something, I set the cookies down and sort of lurched up against him. He put his arms up mostly to catch me, or soften the impact or something but wow. Warm and strong, he hugged me and I just sort of breathed him in.

Just held him for a long moment, not saying anything.

Then, when I knew I had to, I pulled back, taking a deep breath to kind of keep that scent and smiled up at him. “Okay. Gotta go.”

I managed to get my key in the lock, turned without fumbling, and then kicked the cookie box as I stepped inside. I heard Avery chuckle behind me and we both bent for the Tupperware at the same time.

“Here,” he told me, handing over the box. Avery looked like he wanted to laugh again, but there was also something else in his expression. Something a little more intimate than before.

And I liked it.

I took the box, smiled a goodnight and closed the door, feeling a touch of dizziness.

**Avery**

When I was twelve, my dad taught me about masturbation. I guess most guys get some sort of lecture or talk about it, along with the ‘mechanics of sex’ one that is always awkward and never as informative as you hope it will be. In my case it happened because _yes_ , Mom walked in on me, and _yes_ , both of us wanted to die, and _yes_ , Peter apparently laughed like hell when Mom told him.

Not an auspicious beginning, but he told me to get in the car and drove us out to the Reflecting Pool on the Capitol Mall. “We’re going to walk around it,” Peter told me, “and talk. Mostly it will be me, but you can chime in. Okay?”

I didn’t really have a choice, and at least I’d get answers from Peter so I nodded. I’ll never forget that walk. It was an overcast afternoon and you could smell rain in the air but it hadn’t started yet. There were hardly any people out, and the cherry trees were bare. We walked for a bit and I relaxed because walking helped. I could keep pace, and did. 

“Two things to start, Avery. First of all, masturbation is great. Always will be, your whole life. Not only is it a universal hobby, it’s also a comfort, a release, a healthy habit and absolutely normal. Every man on this planet has done it. Most of us _still_ do it. With me so far?”

Of course I was blown away by this. I’d never stopped to consider anyone else’s . . . habits. Every man? Like the president? Like . . .   
Peter shot me a look right then and smirked. “Yes. Even me.”

“Still?” I managed to squeak because I knew he and Mom were . . . well I’d nearly walked in on them enough times.

“Still. Gotta learn to love yourself before you can love other people--that goes for the physical aspect too,” he sighed. We walked for a bit more and then I cleared my throat.

“What’s the second thing?”

Peter slowed a bit, and he didn’t look at me, but his profile was compassionate. I didn’t have the word for it then but I do now: compassionate.

“It’s this: whatever or whoever you think about when you masturbate is your own damned business.You don’t _ever_ have to tell anyone or share it or feel obliged to edit your own fantasies, Avery. That’s part of the pleasure. God gave us amazing imaginations and using it as you see fit is one of those great benefits in life. As silly and strange, as sensual and disgusting as you want. It’s _your_ head and _your_ fantasy.”

I had to ask. I’d already had issues with this and this might be the only time I could with someone I trusted. “What if sometimes . . . it’s not . . . _not_ a girl?”

Peter never even broke stride. “Then sometimes it’s not a girl. Whatever, whoever it is--do they turn you on? Go for it.”

My face was red and I didn’t know where to look even as my heart pounded. I’d just confessed to something I didn’t even have a word for and Peter just rolled with it. Talk about mind-blowing.

So I did start to ask questions and got answers. Yes your dick gets sore if you do it too much. Best place is the shower but if you have kleenex then it’s okay in bed. No, you’ll never run out of jizz but you will get tired. Some guys jerk off together but generally it’s a private sort of thing. It’s not a sin and never has been. That last one kind of got to me too, but Peter assured me that if God was watching us all the time then he’d already seen us crapping and peeing and picking our noses, so jerking off and having sex couldn’t be any worse.

I was so relieved. So grateful. I didn’t have all the answers but I knew I could ask and that he’d take me seriously, no matter what it was. We actually did make it all the way around the Reflecting Pool before he gave me a last bit of advice. 

“Draw it out,” he told me. “Go slow. Don’t just rush through it to get to the orgasm. Learn how to stop and start. Not only is it more fun, but it’ll help later in life. Trust me on that, Avery.”

“You’re not going to tell _Mom_ about any of this are you?” I wanted to know, feeling anxious again, especially about the fantasies part.

“Just that we talked,” Peter assured me. “Nothing more than that. Not her head, not her business, right?” He dropped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him in a hug. I hugged him back, hard, so glad so very glad he was my dad.

 

So that’s sort of a long way of saying that I knew that sooner or later--more likely sooner, Xochitl was going to be in my head when I jerked off. There was a physical attraction there, no denying that, at least on my part. I’ve always been attuned to body language, sensitive to what people say when they’re not talking. Part of it is reporter’s instincts of course, but another part of it is simply being a nearly thirty-year old guy with unrelenting hormones. The biological imperative is strong in this one, whether I like it or not, and that first warm hug with Xochitl set off all sorts of green lights through my system.

All sorts.

And it’s not like I didn’t want to give in—I did, believe me—but it also seemed a little manipulative because I wanted to know her too, not just lust for her. If I was still in my twenties I wouldn’t have this sort of dilemma but I’ve gotten a little more discerning these days I guess. The point is I wasn’t going to . . . put her into the rotation so to speak until I’d learned more about Xochitl Franklin.

**Xochitl**

My dating history was late-blooming, to be honest. Part of that goes back to when I was thirteen, and got into a car accident. Not our fault; a drunk driver plowed through an intersection and T-boned us on the passenger side. My father broke his collarbone, and me? Well I was the passenger, so I got a concussion.

I got more than a concussion actually; I developed epilepsy. To be fair I had a total of two seizures and went on medication that keeps it completely under control. I’m zealous about it and even waited an extra year to get my driver’s license so I could show I’d been five years without any problems. But being without a car through high school made it hard to date, and I was caught up in a lot of other activities like Judo and AP art, so when it came to my social life, I was lagging a little.

But once I had my license I made up for lost time. Dated, lost my virginity, got pickier about who and what I wanted, and the whole time I took my medication while tucking away the truth behind it. Nobody outside of my family knew about my condition. Most of the time I didn’t think of about it, but the anxiety . . . The quiet fears that I’d have a seizure in public, or that the Tegretol would stop working were always there.

And of course my dad was forever suffering guilt and being over-protective. It was a fight to get the license and as for moving out here . . . let’s just say there was a lot of drama over that. Mom made him see some sense and we agreed on some safeguards, like living with the Seredy Brothers and having Lucrezia around. Those I could handle, most of the time.

But I have a rebellious streak, and some of that is clear in the relationship with Jamal and Helene. On the surface we’re three good friends who’d gone to school together, Bruins for life. Underneath though, the strange dance of being with Jamal and not telling Helene, then backing off and letting them be together was still happening. Emotionally it was hard because I cared a hell of a lot about both of them.

Part of the reason I came out to this coast was to see if I could make a break from the two of them; kind of get out of being the third wheel. Distance helps, as does being busy. But there are times when I’m lonely and when I’m feeling sorry for myself—that’s when I’m susceptible to Jamal’s calls.

He knows it; I know it. Hard habit to break. I suppose I could always make a clean breast of it with Helene, but the risk of losing both of them . . . I’m not ready for that. So for now Jamal was out, and I needed to focus on other things anyway, like the mural for the Georgetown public library, and the grant I was writing to go study codexes in the National Museum in Mexico City. If that one comes through I’d be down there through the spring break, which would be fantastic.

In the meantime there’s Mr. Avery Brown, texting me about his interview with Gerardo, and when can he set up a time with me?

I’m flattered, amused, and yeah, intrigued. He’s sharp and very people-oriented, that’s clear. And fun—the not-a-date cookie thing proved that. I wish I was more confident about just maybe asking him out, frankly but that’s not my style. Some women of color can handle striding around, taking charge while carrying it off with panache but I’m not one of them. I’m more of a ‘deeds, not words’ type of person, wanting what I do to show who I am. But at least I can talk to the man.

//Okay. I have Thursday afternoon free.//

Within a minute I get a response, which is flattering.

//Great! Where would you like to meet?//

//Georgetown public library? Over on R Street?//

//Okay. Time?//

//Around three. Which person are you interviewing? The art historian or the socially progressive liberal? Inquiring minds want to know.//

//Both. I don’t play favorites! See you there, Xochitl. :) //

I looked at that and shook my head. This one was dangerously cute.

**Avery**

“So let me get this straight,” I asked her again, looking for clarification. “For every question I ask you, you ask one of me? That’s not really how an interview works, Xochitl.”

“I give you permission to call me Xochi, and yes, I know that, but I get nervous and having a chance to ask questions in return will kind of help settle that,” she told me. We were sitting across from each other in one of the little alcoves in the study hall of the Georgetown Public Library. 

“You don’t strike me as the nervous type,” I replied, pulling out my cell phone. “Would it bother you if I recorded us?”

“I am, and nope,” she replied, “as long as you state my consent at the beginning. Come on--the give and take will make things easier for both of us.”

She had a point. I was pretty good at the basic interview, and I’d learned out to use charm and sincerity to pull in the most reluctant subjects, but even at best, interviewing holds a degree of discomfort for both parties. Since this was going to be supplemental if I used it at all, I could afford to compromise a little. And I was curious what she’d ask me, so I nodded.

“All right. I suppose I could edit it. Anything off-limits?” This was the one compromise Mom rarely offered, but again, I was aware this wasn’t the usual setting or situation.

Xochi considered it. “Reserve the right to call it at the moment. So . . . good to go?”

I listed the date, time, location and introduced Xochi before asking her the first question: “As a woman of color who’s lived on both coasts of this country, what are your feelings about our current immigration policies?”

And we were off. Xochi gave a firm impassioned overview of her experiences and expressed her doubts about the current administration and their policies. I asked about her experiences with protests and got several stories about protests her parents had participated in, and her own involvement at college. It fascinated me how well she expressed herself, and I was sort of dazzled when Xochi finished and looked at me.

“Okay, my turn. Why did you and Georgie break up?” she asked it softly, her tone very different from minutes before, and it took me a minute to respond. Part of me wanted not to answer but it was a chance to be honest so I took a deep breath.

“Um, on top of being genderfluid, Georgie’s asexual, and for a while that was fine. I’d just come out of a couple of unfulfilling relationships and just wanted someone to . . . cuddle, I guess. But after a while that wasn’t . . . enough?” God I could feel myself blushing, radiating like a heater. When I looked at Xochi though, she was nodding.

“Yeah, I get it,” she told me. “I do. Must have hurt a little though.”

I sighed. “It did. Georgie understood. Kind of picked up on it before I did, and we talked it out. I honestly think they should have gone into psychology instead of economics and finance, frankly.”

“Or teaching, or catering or languages,” Xochi smiled. “I’m glad you two are still close.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “So, what do you hope the march will accomplish, beyond media publicity?”

She made a response about social awareness and community activism, along with some emphasis about reaching out on behalf of various charitable organizations, which had me nodding. I was about to ask another question when Xochi cleared her throat.

I made a ‘go ahead’ gesture to her and she grinned. “So, what do you do for fun, Avery? Hobbies? Habits?”

“Work out,” I shrugged. “Write, although I haven’t done much that’s fiction lately. Sometimes I indulge in terrible karaoke and I work like hell to keep the plants in the house alive.”

That made her laugh and seeing it felt good. I like making people feel good because it helps me feel good in return. Xochi gave a last snicker. “I’m okay with plants and things in bowls mostly. I’ve been thinking about a larger pet but haven’t gotten one yet.”

“I’ve got one,” I told her, brightening. “Benny. He’s on wheels.” I described him and she demanded pictures so I stopped recording to show her a few good shots I’d gotten of my resident charioteer. She asked dozens of questions and it wasn’t until nearly an hour later that I realized the interview was now all about me.

Tricky woman.

**Xochitl**

I liked Avery. He was so open about so much, and I had the feeling he wasn’t like that all the time, that somehow I was gaining his trust. Mostly it was in the way he seemed relaxed around me, but maybe I was reading something into it. Something I wanted to see. So I tried to keep things light as I drew him out, listening to his stories about growing up between to fairly famous reporters, and letting him have fun doing it.

I could see that storytelling came naturally to him, and that he had a good sense of humor balancing out a competitive streak. And more than that, he was pretty self-sufficient. Not many men his age were, honestly. Especially those with white privilege. There are folks who would jump all over me for a comment like that, but I know what I’m talking about here. I’ve seen enough of it both at my own alma mater and my current worksite; men who wear their sense of entitlement like a bad cologne. They’re the ones who tease me about my name, or playfully touch my hair, or repeatedly tell me they listen to rap. 

They’re the ones who feel they can dictate the rules and hate being told they can’t. Every generation has ‘em and those of us who have ‘ethnic’ names or broad noses or skin darker than a latte spend some percent of our lives having to navigate around them.

Thank the good Lord Avery seemed to be woke.

So eventually he and I realized the library was going to close and ended the interview, rising up and stretching a bit. I shot him a look. “Feel like getting some burritos?”

“Oh man you read my mind!” he nodded with a grin, so we made plans to meet up at Azteca. When we headed out together, I noticed an elderly patron watching us with a frosty moue on her face.

I recognized that look. My dad always called it the ‘What is this world coming to?’ glare that was the hallmark of bigoted women of a certain age and even though I hadn’t gotten it recently, here it was.

Instinctively I leaned away from Avery but he was alert and caught it. He reached for my hand and took it, making a point to bring it up and kiss it as we passed Mrs. ‘I Disapprove’ his gaze daring her, just _daring_ her to say something. 

She sniffed and looked away.

The brush of his mustache, the soft warmth of his lips against the back of my hand . . . I shivered, and not just because I was so damned touched by his gesture. Avery kept his fingers interlaced with mine all the way out of the library and down to the sidewalk, not looking at me, but I saw him taking deliberate slow breaths.

“Hey,” I called up to him, forcing the man to look my way. He was pissed, that much was clear, and I felt another pang in my chest seeing it. “It’s okay, Avery. Really.”

“It’s not okay,” he growled and his eyes were sharp and bright. “Damn it, what the hell?”

“Welcome to the slings and arrows of casual bigotry,” I tried to joke. “She’s just jealous I’m hanging out with a handsome guy.”

“Xochi,” he managed a quick grin at my compliment but I could tell he wasn’t going to be distracted, “That look back there; that’s bullshit. It’s anti-miscegenistic racism!”

I held his gaze. “Yes, and . . . ?”

“She doesn’t have the _right_ to--”

“Yes she _does_ ,” I sighed. “Free country, remember? She has the right to her own opinions and beliefs, even if you and I disagree with them.”

He started to pace, which was funny because he hadn’t let go of my hand, so I was forced to tag along back and forth with him on the sidewalk. “My God, Xochi, it’s ridiculous. Does this happen a _lot_ to you? How do you deal with crap like this?”

“It happens enough that I’ve developed a thicker skin,” I admitted. “There are always going to be people who glare, Avery. It’s the nature of humanity.”

“Well it’s wrong,” he muttered. “I mean where the hell does she get off judging you?”

I tugged his hand, forcing him to stop and look at me. Once I had his gaze, I sighed. “And we’re judging her right back. Look, this is a fact of life for me. A fact that every person of color, every woman, every person of a certain size or physical disability or any other divisive factor has to contend with, so you’re going to have to deal with it too if you hang out with me.”

**Avery**

I was having a cold shower moment. It was a term my parents created to describe when something unexpected and unpleasant hits you--like being in a hot shower and suddenly having it go icy down your spine. It’s a good metaphor and it fit for the current situation, that’s for sure. One minute Xochi and I were having a good time, heading out for food and feeling relaxed, and BAM, one disgusted, judgmental look later I was feeling angry and frustrated.

Not only was I pissed off that the old biddy at the Georgetown library had the audacity to glare at us, but I was also hit with the painful realization that Xochi had to deal with this crap on a semi-regular basis. That prejudice was still prevalent and pervasive even here in the nation’s capital, a city where well over half the current population is African-American.

So much for social progress, right?

I looked at Xochi and sighed. “I don’t have to like it, anymore than you do. But I’m not going to let it stop me, or us.”

She smiled and I loved the way it lit up her face. “All right then,” Xochi told me. “I appreciate it. Nice continental move too.”

That confused me and I cocked my head, staring at her. Xochi rolled her eyes and started to sing. “A kiss on the hand may be quite continental, but diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . . .”

I laughed. “Will you settle for cubic zirconia?”

That made her laugh. “That would be a heck of an update for the musical now wouldn’t it? They could call it ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blonde Streaks?”

“Who says they’re gentlemen nowadays?” I countered. “More like ‘Upwardly Mobile Persons Prefer Bleach-enhanced Partners?”

She snorted at that, tossing her head back and watching her, I felt another one of those twings in my chest. Yeah, I could get addicted to make Xochi laugh; I was halfway there already. So I squeezed her fingers before letting go of them, adding, “I’ll meet you there, and if I get there first, what do you want?”

“Cheese and chicken burrito con guacamollllle,” she drawled out with perfect Spanish inflection. Y tu, seňor Avery Marrón?”

“Burrito de carne y queso,” I responded, pleased that my third year Spanish wasn’t letting me down. “Con, uh, todos?”

Another splutter of giggles. I pretended to pout. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Makes you a cannibal,” Xochi pointed out. “Todos means everyone.”

“Fair,” I grinned. “Sometimes I have a pretty big appetite.”

“You’d fit right into the civilizations I specialize in,” Xochi observed, fishing out her car keys. “Okay then, meet you there.”

It started to rain halfway through my drive and I tensed up, but there wasn’t any wind with it, so I was okay. The downpour was the slow sort that soaks everything and floods the storm drains. I could handle this type of weather, mostly. 

Mostly. 

But sooner or later DC was going to be hit with something major and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it. The last big one in this area was Hazel, and I’d missed Sandy by virtue of being in France at the time. I could handle rain and I could handle wind, but the combination of the two . . . that was sure to bring back the nightmares.


End file.
